


Pain

by editorbit



Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [19]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood, Character Study, Child Abuse, Crying, Gen, One Shot, Violence, etc etc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21936613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editorbit/pseuds/editorbit
Summary: Everyone knew it. There hadn’t been a single person at the circus who hadn’t known.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska
Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514969
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Pain

Everyone knew it. There hadn’t been a single person at the circus who hadn’t known. Everyone, from the blind fortune teller, Mr. Cicero, to the youngest of children Jeremiah didn’t even know the names of. They knew. Rumours spread like fire in dry grass and early on they all knew. 

Their mother hurt Jerome. Their uncle hurt Jerome. Jerome uttered no words about it, but his skin told it all for him. Bruises running down his exposed arms. Blue blending in with green and yellow. A hint of blue around his eyes showing every time he closed them or let his gaze fall to the floor. Cuts. Scars. Healing wounds. Everyone knew they hurt him, yet they never said anything. No one liked Jerome. Jerome was a problem child. Jerome was the evil twin, Jeremiah had heard uttered several times before. Jerome was a lost cause. He deserved it all, every single imperfection on his skin. 

Jeremiah had witnessed it several times, Jerome getting hurt. Their mother getting drunk and having his way with him. She’d yell at him, waking little Jeremiah from his light sleep. Words Jeremiah had never used before in his life were heard. Words Jeremiah wasn’t supposed to use. Bad words. Standing in the door, he’d be met with the sight of her shoving his brother to the floor and kicking him. In the side, in the leg or his arms protecting his head. The sound of Jerome’s cries of pain reached his ears. The scent of blood reached his nose, no matter how few drops had spilled this time. 

Most of the time their mother sent their uncle to deal with him. Jeremiah would peek out the window and watch uncle Zack beat him. It had been dark most of the time. Jeremiah was supposed to be in bed, but the noises from outside were loud and exigent. Jeremiah would be met with the sight of his brother a while later as he almost limped into their room. Blood would be running like rivers down from his nose. Bruises would sit fresh on his skin, right by the old fading ones. Tears would be threatening to spill, though they weren’t Jerome’s. Because Jerome never cried. Not anymore. "This world doesn’t care about you or anyone else," his brother had said to him, tone poisonous and words spat like curses.

More often than not, Jeremiah heard rather than saw it. The sounds of fists hitting flesh and bone. The sounds of gasps. The sounds of pained cries. Too loud and too overwhelming were the sounds and Jeremiah pressed his hands against his ears to keep them away. He read loudly to himself from a book or newspaper. Stories about fun adventures. Articles about people doing nice things to someone else. Yet the sounds never let themselves get drowned out. Jeremiah could scream the words as loud as he could and even that would never muffle the sounds of Jerome’s pain. The sounds haven’t left his mind since. He hears them at night. They haunt him. When he lies on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, it’s all he ever hears. Scream after scream. 

Jerome never cried anymore. The tears just stopped. No longer did the blood from his presumably broken nose mix together with the salty tears halfway down Jerome’s face into a pink, runny liquid. No longer did Jeremiah watch his brother sit on his bed and sob, pained expression barely visible through all the blood, tears and dirt staining his skin. No longer did Jeremiah take a seat by him and comfort him, Jerome’s face pressed into his neck and his hands clutching his sweater. Jerome wasn’t the same. 

Jerome hurt him. Looking back on it, Jeremiah figures it was some sort of coping mechanism. Either that or Jerome had been maniacal even back then, just like he is now. 

Jeremiah could remember the first time. Jerome had come back all bloody and beat up one night. He’d walked right over to him and hit him. He had hit him and hit him and hit him, over and over again until Jeremiah had been just as bloody and beat up on the floor in front of him. Familiar words had been spat at him. Familiar bad words. Jeremiah had, much unlike Jerome, cried. He’d cried and cried until the sun replaced the moon’s spot in the sky and then he’d cried some more. It hurt. Everything hurt. His nose ached with every breath he took, his head pounded and his skin felt sore and bruised.  
Uncle Zack had dealt with Jerome that day. Hadn’t Jeremiah known any better, he’d thought he had killed him. But a few hours later Jerome had been back, almost unrecognisable.

Jerome slapped him. He grabbed onto Jeremiah’s arm and kept him still as he hit him. Over and over until Jeremiah’s skin burned. Jerome punched him. He punched him in the face, in his stomach and in his shoulder, all hard enough to the point Jeremiah thought something might have broken. Bruises spread across his skin like a disease. If he touched them, they’d sting, almost as if they were poisonous. As poisonous as the words Jerome screamed into his face. Jeremiah had heard them all before, though not uttered from Jerome’s lips. Their mother’s. Lastly, Jerome kicked him. Like he’d seen his mother do so many times, Jerome shoved him and kicked him. Kicked him until his body didn’t feel like it was there anymore. The pain was excruciating and lasted for weeks. 

Jeremiah felt much like Jerome. Very much alike.

Lying here, in his maze at night, listening to the screams over and over again, something swells up in his chest. Empathy, with a hint of something almost unrecognisable. Guilt.


End file.
